


Reunion

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: AU, Consensual Sex, Gore, Help, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Not Canon Compliant, Sticky Sex, Voyeurism, arm stump fucking, what is this I don't even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE #19, self-indulgent AU: Drift rescues Ratchet from Pharma, yet again. A tearful reunion turns into something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> This was kinda-sorta written for homosindisguise.
> 
> I have no idea what this is, but enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.

* * *

"That'll do, Drift — that'll do."

"Ratchet —"

"Get over here."

Drift threw a final glance to the floor, where sprawled at his feet was the unconscious form of Pharma. Thanks to some choice cuts from his Great Sword, Drift had disarmed the deranged medic, quite literally: along with his shoulder-mounted guns, Pharma's hands were once again gone, this time severed below the elbow. Drift frowned — but then his feet were moving on their own, and the distance between himself and Ratchet swiftly dwindled before becoming negated completely.

Words had no function. Drift felt himself collide against the other — their already-battered armor rasped and grinded as they held one another in a bruising, tight embrace — their mouths crushed into a fervent kiss full of _terror-worry-relief_. Vaguely, Drift felt his digits pressing dents into Ratchet's plating — but he hardly noticed, not over the roar of his fans and the unchecked tumult of his emotions.

Their lips separated and he heard Ratchet murmur, "It's alright, kid — I'm fine."

"But —"

"The others," Ratchet said, "where are they?"

"They're safe," Drift replied, but he couldn't quite choke back a gasping sob. "They're okay — First Aid and Ambulon are — the Circle of Light — everyone's okay. Everyone's going to be okay." He sobbed again, his vents heaving — and then there was the calming caress of a hand on the back of his helm. Drift shuddered and leaned into the touch. "What did he do to you?"

Ratchet grimaced. "A better question is where the _frag_ did you come from? How'd you find us?"

"It's a long, stupid story." And Drift refused to explain himself any further. He could not, however, keep himself from noticing the tell-tale scrapes and dents and scratches that marred Ratchet's frame, nor could the ex-Decepticon ignore the compromising position the medic had been in when he'd first stormed the medibay. Pharma had paid for it with his hands — again — and it was only at Ratchet's pleading that Pharma hadn't paid for it with his life. "What did he do to you?" Drift repeated, though this time his words were softer.

A very small smirk pulled at the corner of Ratchet's mouth. "I had an out-of-body experience, kid."

"This is _not_ the time to be —"

"Literally." Ratchet pulled away and then began to pace, every so often throwing wary glances toward the still-offline, still-bleeding Pharma. "He removed my head and spark from my body."

" _What —_ "

"And then he put me back together."

Drift felt a very unpleasant sensation pull at his fuel tank. "Just like that, huh?"

Ratchet didn't meet his optics. "Just like that."

Unspoken words hung thickly between them, and Drift scowled. "I'll kill him."

"No you won't," Ratchet snapped, "because we need him. Tailgate is still dying. Pharma knows how to use the equipment in this medibay better than First Aid or Ambulon or myself."

"Ratchet —"

" _Look_ at me. I'm _fine_."

Drift thought otherwise. He was all too familiar with the thinly-disguised horror that showed in the CMO's optics; Drift _knew_ that look, intimately, and though his understanding of the whole situation was hazy at best, he'd perceived enough to put the pieces together. No, he'd likely never comprehend exactly what had transpired in the Luna I medibay, but at least — at least Ratchet was alive. He was _safe_. That's what mattered, at the moment.

Drift couldn't keep himself from pouting. "I was worried."

"You and me both, kid. It's good to have you back." Ratchet's gaze softened, slightly, and he said, "Come here." Drift complied, and again they embraced. This time, their movements were more refined: Ratchet's touch was gentler, Drift's less desperate. Their lips met, and the kiss was slow and soft and unhurried. The medic's hands moved over Drift, caressing his spinal strut, massaging his shoulders — their electromagnetic fields melded and synched, falling into rhythm with one another — their kiss deepened.

Drift felt himself being pushed backward. His thighs hit a medical slab, and then he was on his back, and Ratchet was straddling him, knees on either side of his waist. "Whoa now! Are you sure —"

"Yes," was the immediate, hissed reply. Drift couldn't argue with _that_ — not when the medic's optics were darkened with lust and his EM field was thick and charged with arousal. Again they kissed, and Drift felt something warm spatter over his abdominal plating. Ratchet's port cover had slid away, and _Primus_ — the CMO was leaking and _ready to go_. "Come on. I need this, Drift — and then we can find the others."

Further encouragement was not required: Drift's interface paneling retracted and his spike emerged from its housing. Another kiss, deep and deliberate — a shared, _knowing_ smile — and then Ratchet lowered himself, and Drift felt his spike enveloped by the hot, wet clench of the medic's port. Immediately his hands shot up, grasping at Ratchet's sides, pulling him downward, eager to _fill that space_.

And then there was a cough.

His fingers tightening like a vice on Ratchet's plating, Drift froze, his spark suddenly colder than the icy winds of Messatine. Ratchet, too, had ceased all movement.

"Oh, don't — don't stop on my account. Continue. Please."

 _Of fragging course_. Pharma had come back online, still bleeding copious amounts of vital fluids, and _oh, Primus_. Drift was mortified. He was hilt-deep in Ratchet and Ratchet was on top of him and _frag_. Why hadn't he killed the insane medic when he'd first had the chance, Ratchet's pleading be damned?

A new resolve seemed to fall over Ratchet, however, and Drift was more than slightly alarmed to see the CMO's lips twist into a dark _smirk_. "Welcome back, Pharma. Just in time to enjoy the show."

Drift gawked. "Ratchet, _what_ —"

But Ratchet ignored him. "Congratulations, you're still alive. You can thank me later."

"You're so kind," Pharma said, leering from his place on the floor. He had propped himself up against the wall, his long legs splayed apart — and oh _no_ , the mad doctor's arousal was more than obvious, if his erect spike was any indication. "Like I said, do continue."

Drift suddenly felt everything _but_ aroused, but Ratchet leaned forward to whisper into his audial, "Can you trust me?" A nod. "Good. Pretend he's not there. And make it _loud_." As if to accentuate his last point, Ratchet ground himself over Drift's interface array, then flicked his gaze back to the hands-less Pharma. "Watch and learn. _This is how it's done_."

It was a challenge, then. A competition.

Surely Ratchet was out of his _mind!_ But the medic's port walls rippled slickly around him and _Primus_ that felt good. Drift decided that _just maybe_ he could get onboard with this sudden burst of misplaced impulse; he willed his arms back into operation, and then Ratchet was moving along with him, bringing his frame up, then slamming himself back down. Drift grunted, then offlined his optics: metal screeched and scraped, and once again he heard his fans switch on, their volume starting a slow crescendo.

No, Drift understood why Ratchet was doing this. He understood _perfectly_.

And with that thought, he found himself completely, utterly turned on.

Drift thrust his hips skyward, driving his spike into that hot, wet space, delighting in the hiss that escaped the medic's lips — the tightening of the digits on his shoulder — the splatter of lubricant over his interface array. Calipers clamped down over the length of his spike, pulling him in deeper, and then he gasped as he felt Ratchet's other hand fingering the cover to his port. Without hesitation, the ex-Decepticon sent a command for the panel to retract; immediately, those talented fingers delved inside.

Somewhere, Pharma made a noise of frustration.

Drift didn't care. Ratchet was riding his spike — all but impaling himself on it — and the dexterous digits of a forged medic were manipulating his port, and _frag_ Pharma and _frag_ whatever Pharma had done to Ratchet. This was payback, and _Primus_ did it feel _good_. Drift onlined his optics and yanked Ratchet's head downward, crushing their mouths together, trying as hard as he could to shove his glossa down the other's throat. The medic responded with nips and bites of his own — desperate, vicious, bruising.

Above the clanging of their armor and the wailing of their fans, Drift could just barely discern the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling — his spike, sliding in and out of Ratchet's leaking port; Ratchet's fingers, mounting a far more refined attack on Drift's port. And then Ratchet _hit_ something deep inside of him, and Drift couldn't keep himself from howling. His helm smacked against the medical slab — he pistoned his hips, relentlessly pounding into the medic — and Ratchet matched every thrust, his digits curled tightly against Drift's sensitive inner circuitry.

And Ratchet started to speak. " _Unh —_ that's right. _Yes!_ Just like — like _tha-a-at_. _Dammit_ , kid, you're _good_."

The praise only encouraged Drift further. He _knew_ its primary purpose was to nettle Pharma, and he couldn't help but indulge, as well. " _Primus_ , Ratchet. Just a — just a _little more_ —" Drift turned his head, slightly, only to be met with the sight of Pharma doing —

Doing _that._

His hands were gone, but that wasn't stopping the deranged medic from attending to his needs. Optics hooded and legs spread, Pharma thrust into the stump of his still-bleeding forearm, wings quivering with pain and frustration.

It was grotesque and horrifying and pathetic.

Disturbingly, Drift also found it to be hilarious.

Drift shifted his gaze back to Ratchet, digits digging into the medic's sides as he guided him up and down the shaft of his spike. Ratchet was grinning with both amusement and euphoria, and there was something else — was it _triumph?_ It didn't matter. Drift was on the very cusp of overload: warnings pinged in his visual peripheries, his fans roared, and he felt the twinge of the servomotors in his legs as they started to spasm.

"C'mon, kid —"

Ratchet's hissed words sent him over the edge. Drift hit climax with a shriek and a final thrust of his hips, burying his spike deep into the medic's port, fingers digging gouges into Ratchet's armor. His world a haze of hot, wet bliss, Drift was vaguely aware of Ratchet tipping into overload, as well: the calipers of the CMO's port tightened around him, and then Ratchet was shouting Drift's name, interspersed with a litany of curses and jagged static.

The wail of their fans and the roar of their engines rang through the medibay.

Drift shuddered as Ratchet's digits left his port. A moment later, they nudged at his parted lips, and the ex-Decepticon granted them access, rolling his glossa over the sensitive metal, tasting the tang of his own fluids. Ratchet purred, his frame relaxing further, his mouth curled into a contented smile — although Drift noticed that he wasn't quite _looking at him_. He followed the medic's line of sight, continuing to suck and lap at Ratchet's fingers —

— and Pharma was still self-servicing, screwing his wreck of an arm, fury shining bright in his optics.

If it weren't for the digits in his mouth, Drift would have laughed; instead, he took the opportunity to run a slow, languid lick along the length of Ratchet's forefinger.

Pharma scowled as he repeatedly slammed the bleeding stump of his arm over his spike — and he seemed to be fighting the urge to speak, instead keeping his smoldering glare set on the desecration of the hand he still considered _his_.

"That _has_ to hurt, Pharma," Ratchet said flatly, his voice deceptively measured. "All that energon loss, not to mention your overheating frame — I wager you won't stay online much longer." Pharma grumbled something in response, and Drift couldn't quite discern what. "Excuse me?" Ratchet asked.

"Keep — talking," the jet grated, dentae bared in a grimace.

And keep speaking, Ratchet did — only he was speaking to Drift, and they were words of encouragement, full of love and appreciation. At that moment, as he licked away the last of his lubricants on the medic's fingers, it occurred to Drift that Ratchet was aiming for this to be the very worst overload of Pharma's existence.

It probably was.

The slick, mechanical _crunch_ tumbled into an erratic rhythm, and with a harsh, static-laced snarl, Pharma overloaded, legs and wings quivering, face screwed up into a grimace of pain and ecstasy. Almost immediately he fell offline, optics dark, jaw slack, abused arm still impaled on his spike.

Ratchet slowly eased himself off the medical slab, paying no heed to the deluge of lubricant and transfluid that streaked down his thighs, then pulled Drift to his feet. "Thanks, kid." The ex-Decepticon felt the stare of Ratchet's optics, coupled with what appeared to be a flash of melancholy on the medic's faceplates. "He used to be a good doctor, you know. And — and a good friend."

Drift nodded solemnly. "I know."

"I still wonder if there's any hope for him."

"After the events of today, I'm inclined to think not," Drift murmured. "But, and don't I ever know it, I believe that just about _anyone_ can be redeemed."

Ratchet smiled. "I thought you'd say something like that."

"You know me too well."

"Not well enough."

Drift just snorted. "Come on. This miracle medical facility have any washracks?"

"It had damn well better."

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :B


End file.
